


What Remains

by melanshi



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Asphyxiation, Child Abuse, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, No shipping here, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Temporary Character Death, but not like sexy asphyxiation, except maybe michael and the puppet, i can't believe i have to say that, or maybe not, these guys just straight up hate each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 05:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanshi/pseuds/melanshi
Summary: He really should've just stayed dead.





	What Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyoo, I originally wrote this for a mixture of Animatronic August and to celebrate the 4th anniversary of FNAF but hey, I liked it so I guess you guys get it on here as well.

“You may not recognize me at first, but I assure you, it’s still me.”

Michael barely had a second to take in what remained of the Spring Bonnie mask before his father’s remaining hand grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him out of his chair. A quip about having to pay for the shirt if it was ruined spawned in his mouth, yet it died before it reached his tongue.

William must’ve sensed this. He paused for a brief second, tilted his head curiously. When Michael didn’t say anything, a low chuckle tore out of his throat. Michael found himself flying across the room, without even a hint that he was going to be thrown. He crashed into a pile of boxes, a sickening crack reverberating around the room. Whether it was from him or whatever had been in the boxes, he didn’t want to know.

“This isn’t how I expected our reunion to go.”

Michael dragged his eyes up to his father, noting how each “s” was drawn out, like the snake the bastard was. He snarled.

Scraptrap seemed to ignore it. “Nice mask,” he remarked, taking a step closer.

“Wish I could say the same,” Michael remarked, “but I’d prefer not to lie.”

He slowly made his way to his feet. Or at least tried to. As soon as he moved his weight off his ass and into his feet, his left leg crumbled beneath him. He mentally swore, noting a dark substance begining to stain his pant leg. Seems that crack did come from him.

Scraptrap laughed, a mix of his father’s low chuckle and some new maniacal laughter Michael had never heard before. “So, you fancy yourself a comedian?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael could see the desk. He’d swore he’d hidden a shock prod in the top of drawer. “No, I don’t.”

The response seemed to almost surprise William. He growled. “Seems to you have a bit of your mother in you after all.”

He began inching towards the desk. “Nah, I get my jokes from your side. From a total joke himself.”

Scraptrap charged with a shriek. Michael paused in place.  _Closer… closer…_  Once he could see the veins in his father’s eyes, he lunged, leaping out of the way. Too late to stop, the animatronic slammed into the wall with a painful crash.

Michael groaned as he landed. Despite having no working nerves left, that impact hurt. He slowly made his way to his knees, glancing back at his father. Scraptrap had already recovered and was staring straight at him.

_Oh, bloody–_

A shriek sounded out and Michael frantically reached for the desk. His fingers missed by mere inches, just as a hand grabbed his ankle.  _No, no, no, no, no._

Scraptrap pulled him back, ignoring his frantic attempts to catch the edges of the floor tiles. When he could, he grabbed the back of his shirt and hoisted him off the ground. Michael aimed a poorly timed punch at him and missed pathetically.

“Now, now,” William scolded, as if he was still a little kid. “Is that the way I raised you?”

Michael spat at him.

Scraptrap glared at him. He hooked Michael’s shirt on his boney arm, allowing him to reposition his remaining hand to grab his neck. His son’s eyes immediately went wide as pressure began slowly increasing around his throat. His hands immediately flew up to it and began attempting to force fingers off. 

“Pity,” William said, his expression almost seeming to change to mocking sadness. “In another life, we could have been a great duo. Father and son. Creators.”

Whatever Michael attempted to say came out garbled through his slowly crushing throat.

Scraptrap chuckled. “I always wondered what would happen if someone injected with remnant lost a vital organ. Such as a head. And a brain. Not that you ever had one to begin with, of course.”

Michael’s struggles were growing weaker and weaker. His clawing was becoming sloppier and sloppier until he gave one final tug at the fingers around his throat, gave one final squeak, and went limp. His head lolled forward, his neck not quite snapped but crushed enough to let his head droop at an unnatural angle. His arms fell to his sides, completely useless. The room was quiet, save for one final drip of whatever substance had been leaking out of his left leg onto the floor. All at once, everything stopped.

William frowned, tilting his head at what once had been his eldest child. Almost as useless in death as he had been in life. Such a pity.

His attention turned to the abandoned computer monitor, still illuminating the room in blue. He approached it slowly. Somewhere, Molten Freddy laughed. He should be able to find the entrance to the pizzeria on here. And beyond that, his next performance.

And what a show he would give.

All he needed was that damn map.

The second his fingers rested on the keyboard, Michael’s head shot up. Before William could react, his fingers grabbed his eye sockets, curling around the inside of the mask and forcefully yanking it up. With a shriek on his father’s part, he was dropped to the floor, landing hard on his broken leg.

He didn’t react. Instead, he found the top drawer and threw it open, rummaging through its contents, never taking his eyes off the robot in front of him. Stapler, notepad, pencil, c’mon, where was it?

Scraptrap turned to him, fury practically bleeding out of his very soul.

Tape roll, paperclip, keys…

He took a step forward, raising the boney arm, the sharp end gleaming in the flickering light of the computer monitor.

Gum wrapper, eraser, mousepad…

William shrieked. And Scraptrap jolted forward.

Shock prod.

Michael’s hand wrapped around the handle of the object and he tore it out of the drawer faster than even he knew was possible. The bone was only a few feet away from his face. He hit the switch and dodged, striking out at the same time.

The shock prod made contact.

William screamed, his entire body igniting with electricity. Beneath him, Michael watched through his mask, the boney arm just barely missing his face. With no contact made, William’s balance was thrown off and he went tumbling into the metal desk. It too was quickly consumed in the shock, almost seeming to amplify it instead of just conducting it.

Michael didn’t stop. His neck was crushed. His leg was broken. And yet he didn’t stop.

William stared down at him, eyes wide in horror. Michael met the gaze. The two remained like that for a moment, simply staring. Father and son. And then Michael shoved the prod further into his suit, allowing it to embed itself in it.

He himself scrambled backwards watching the scene in front of him, breathing heavy breaths he didn’t need. His hand went up to his neck and came back with a dark substance, the exact same liquid collecting on his pant leg. He numbly wondered what it was.

His success didn’t last for long. Scraptrap reach down and wrenched the prod out from him, throwing it across the room, still active and buzzing. He turned to Michael, his fury almost visible. Michael’s eyes went wide and he frantically attempted to scramble away.

“You should’ve stayed dead, Mikey,” Scraptrap hissed, his voice oddly calm, yet anger poisoning the edges of it. He took a step forward, enjoying his son’s terror as he watched him. He was going to enjoy this.

“You should’ve stayed dead too.”

Both men froze at the distorted yet familiar voice. Michael tilted his head, attempting to see past the animatronic in front of him. His unnecessary breath hitched in his throat.

William was rooted in place, his eyes wide and staring blankly ahead. Although he was trying not to, it was obvious that he was quivering.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Afton?” the voice said. “Are you afraid?”

He didn’t respond, yet everyone in the room could tell that what once had been pure unbridled rage was now replaced by unending terror.

“Look at me.”

He didn’t move, although it was unclear whether it was from his fear paralyzing him or from refusal.

“What’s wrong? Are you afraid of me?” The voice suddenly laughed and the two men were thrown back to when they’d last heard that laugh, in the middle of Freddy’s backroom, mixed in with metal parts and plastic eyeballs, where she’d been playing as her father worked.

William snapped out of the memory. He shook his head. No, he wasn’t afraid of her.

“Then face me, Mr. Afton.”

This time he did, turning almost as slowly as possible, waiting until the last minute to see her. Or what she’d become.

He found himself face to face with none other than an unknown black bear. The bear tilted his head, observing the scene before him. He looked at the remains of the beings once known as William and Spring Bonnie. And he looked past him at what remained of Michael Afton.

Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, the bear opened his mouth in what could possibly be a smile.

Through his teeth shone the brilliant white eyes of the Marionette.

“Welcome back, Mr. Afton.”


End file.
